


White Noise and Sparks of Topaz

by madqueenofhellskitchen



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Angst, Angsty Schmoop, Comedy, Ghost Shenanigans, It really has been unresolved, M/M, Not gonna lie there will be humor in this I PROMISE, Not one hundred percent true but you get it, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Sassy Bilbo, Schmoop, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Specters - Freeform, Supernatural Elements, Thorin Is an Idiot, Thorin Oakenshield is an awkward manchild, Unresolved Sexual Tension, after BoFA
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:20:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madqueenofhellskitchen/pseuds/madqueenofhellskitchen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fate has a funny way of changing its mind at the very last minute.<br/>For it isn’t the Line of Durin that falls that day. It’s a Hobbit that was too brave for his own good, filled with too much faith and forgiveness and there’s no blow to the head to save him. There are no prayers that could drip from the King’s lips to save the situation and he cannot stop time.<br/>But Thorin cannot help what his soul desires, and what it wishes it could fix.<br/>And Ilúvatar cannot help but care for His earthly children while Aulë cannot help but torture His. And Yavanna will just do whatever She wishes, too.<br/>So maybe it is both these things (or is there a third option?) that explain the shattering mirrors all throughout Erebor on a cold night and the piercing screams that cause Thorin to fall to his knees in pain.<br/>Maybe it is all of the above that summons a beautiful, friendly Specter of Bilbo Baggins to his Mountain, having not changed one lick.<br/>But even Specters cannot stay amongst the living forever. Gandalf says so himself, murmuring the words “no more than eight months”.<br/>Once again, Thorin finds that time is running out—but this time, he may just be able to stop the clock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Noise and Sparks of Topaz

**Author's Note:**

> So this beautiful plot-bunny came into my mind a little while ago, and lo and behold, I've been inspired to write again--after tough stuff in my life (incoming graduation-from-college woes, a bad breakup, etc.) Oh well, at least Thorin and Bilbo can get some love and I can write silliness. I mean seriousness. No, I mean both.
> 
> An AU for "The Hobbit" involving ghostly shenanigans, pining Thorin Oakenshield, secret Fili and Kili romance (because Uncle's too busy mooning over Bilbo, obviously), and a countdown until the end. Expect angst, sex, Bilbo scaring the crap out of Thorin, heartbreaks, baby!Frodo, a scared-out-of-her-wits Lobelia, a great deal of dwarven language and more. 
> 
> Rating is mature for now, but may go up to Explicit if I see fit to do so. Expect around 10 chapters, but 10 LONG chapters. I've been known to write 10-20k-worded chapters some times, so though it will be a "short story" by chapter amounts, that doesn't mean it will be by chapter length! :) This may ALSO turn into a series of stories, but I'm not sure yet. Because I'm so busy, I don't want to put out more than I can chew, really. But if I am to do something, it would probably be a sequel and have more Fili/Kili in it, too. 
> 
> Reviews, comments, questions, suggestions and more are all welcome. Enjoy! It's just good to be back to writing full stories again, friends. Also, long paragraphs of italics are, of course, flashbacks.

Prologue

**Glass**

_All alone_

_It was always there, you see_

_And even on my own_

_It was always standing next to me..._

_I think I’m breaking down again_

_I think I’m breaking down_

_

-“Breaking Down”, Florence + The Machine

_

_**\---*O* ---** _

It’s cold throughout the mountain halls in the evening.

Óin and Balin are expecting an early winter, and the idea of snow settling in soon always makes Thorin bristle more than he would like to admit. He’s used to mountain temperatures, yes, his body built for the labor amongst the icy breezes and drafts, but that does not necessarily mean he likes it—dwarrows enjoy the forges not just for the metal, but the heat, too, after all.

But maybe it isn’t the temperature bothering him—perhaps it’s the idea of a winter so soon after Erebor being reclaimed barely five months prior that perturbs him. It truly sounds like a bad omen from Mahal.

Even more so when his kin are still settling in, coming from the Blue Mountains and Iron Hills to come and see their newly-resurrected home; and of course, there is the rebuilding, the reclaiming of parts of Erebor that have been ravaged by dust and dragon shite for far too long.

Each day he awakens, and there’s something new to do. He’s been wielding the crown for five months, and Thorin has barely had time to breathe unless it is to give air to Erebor; there was the Council to create (yes, Fili, you may have a seat—no, Bofur, you may _not_ ), the mines needed to be found once more and fixed up for work, and each one that had wood and stone chipped away revealed a livelihood they could embrace once more. There was gold there, veins and coins alike, there were stones still present—emeralds that reminded him of the woods, topaz that reminded him of rivers with rough waters he had treaded before…

And garnets that reminded him of a dainty coat he thought too gaudy before he would never see it again.

There were letters that needed to be written (Dis needed to know that her sons lived, that Erebor was slowly walking and humming and singing, after years of living coma and that she should be with him and upon the Council, for it was where she belonged; Dain needed to be gloated to, and even his assistance was…necessary in some ways). There were homes to clean away, dead to clear and bury away; stores to open, rocks to be broken…Every moment of every day was a necessity for Thorin and his people, in order to try and restore everything they had lost. And it would take years to finish the job— _if_ it would ever be finished—but truly, they were off to a great beginning, an unexpectedly wonderful beginning and Thorin would sacrifice his daylight hours to make sure the job was done.

But it is his nights that are the worst.

Because he should have been able to sleep at night. Because the great King should have been allowed to rest at night while he worked during the day.

But Thorin never can, and tonight is no exception as he awakens with a start, his heavy breathing echoing out in the royal chambers that he’s never forgotten after decades of not seeing with his own eyes, and after years of being sealed away for disuse; sweat is staining the sheets and the dwarf kicks away the furs with a tired, aching sigh; for truthfully, any creature, any being, can only take so much sleeplessness, so many darkened nights where blood flows onto his hands once more, and he awakens feeling ill and besotted with the idea of never sleeping again.

So Thorin does what he does each night his eyes fly open with a gasp: lighting the lamp beside his bed with a match, the colors bouncing off the walls that are decked in splendor. The fireplace’s embers are slowly dying, and he can hazard it is about two, three in the morning. He has not spent much time making sure his chambers look the best, but they are surely the best of the rest for the moment—there’s a bookshelf with old tomes from Ori lining it for pleasure reading; there’s an elegant small table with Khuzdûl etchings and a matching (single) chair in front of the logs and mantle, while a balcony stretches out to his right, overlooking the world below his feet that, Thorin has to admit, sometimes calls him to jump.

But dreams of death would do that to any being on this planet.

And there’s a mirror on the left wall that, as he opens the flap to his canopy bed to stand and stretch, shows a graceful, yet graceless, King who is graying too fast, whose beard shows more sprinkles of white than it did five months ago and it makes him snort at the ridiculousness of it all.

Only he could climb so high and yet fall so far.

After one stretch, Thorin’s body gives in and the bed welcomes him once more as he sits hard, and his eyes can only stare at the glistening candle in his lamp—and the key to Erebor that is always seated next to it.

He never threw it away—never thought about storing it away in a safe or even donating it to the ever-growing library for future and posterity’s sake.

Maybe because it reminds him too much of everything that came before this month.

Maybe because it reminds him too much of how Bilbo didn’t give up in the end.

Rough hands gingerly pick up the key once more and there’s a wry smile on Thorin’s face as it mildly shines in the room this night; it’s dark, like the nights, like the caverns and tunnels yet unexplored, but it has a certain beauty to it, it always has.

And it always will.

But it’s like self-mutilation for Thorin, now, looking at the token that got him so far; because it makes the nightmares even more real than they even are—which is saying something, because he dreams of how he learned that yes, he was meant to inherit the gold-sickness that has plagued his family for years.

But that he was meant to lose all desires of greed in an instant of revelation, in an act of punishment from Mahal for everything.

…Because each night, closing his eyes, his ears shutting off to the real world, he hears and sees everything again.

**\--- *o* ---**

_The world is burning around him, and all Thorin can feel is rage; he’s used to feeling rage, but not **only** rage. There is distrust, there is hate, but all he can feel—actually feel—is rage._

_And his sword is bloodied and slicing through flesh and maybe it’s a suicidal act, but he’ll stand here and fight; and he can hear Kili readying his bow and the arrows are flying and Fili is beside him, double-axes swinging and he can hear his nephew’s war cries and a part of his heart is filled with glorious pride and haughty glory at the words._

_Thorin isn’t stupid, though; he knows he could die here, and looking back on it, he’s not surprised he didn’t._

_But he knows why he didn’t._

_Because Death will spare a life It takes another in compensation._

_But Thorin isn’t thinking about any of that when he screams at the orcs, slicing open their heads and his hair becomes stained with black blood while wargs scream as his kin takes them down._

_And he isn’t thinking when he finally spots Azog—the lecherous beast is grinning at him, and Thorin can only tell himself that this is it, it’s time to finish what he started, and oh, Bolg is there too, and Thorin knows he might as well wipe out the entire line, it is what they deserve, and he readies himself-_

_Until Azog turns his head at a scream from Bolg, who begins to grip his leg after a roar of pain; there’s a small, but deep gash, and it’s distracted the orcs for the moment, and Thorin only has seconds to wonder if it was an arrow, or a thrown blade, that caused the surprise wound when all Thorin can do is throw those ideas out the window, and nearly drop Orcrist into the mud and grass in shock._

_Because Bilbo Baggins has appeared out of thin air—much to the hobbit’s surprise, it seems, too, as he hurriedly glances around at the ground in terror—and Sting is dark with gore and the little creature is panting and his eyes are wide and he tries to say something, something brave, something to steer at least one of the orcs away from Thorin and all Thorin can do is stare because what is Bilbo DOING HERE?_

 _The color drains from his face as Bolg advances on the hobbit—his hobbit, his hobbit, his burglar, no, he can’t be here, why is he here, I said, I screamed, I—and Thorin finds his feet cowardly and unmoving but he tries to shake himself out of it as the world is starting to slow down, as if time is stopping, and he thinks that Azog is coming towards him._

_But he isn’t._

_Azog just smirks and shouts something in his disgusting tongue, and he too advances on Bilbo—just as Thorin’s brain finally returns to him, and he makes to try and run._

_Because something tells him this is wrong._

_Because something tells him this wasn’t what was supposed to happen._

_Fate is changing and he needs to keep it the same—even though he will fail trying._

_Because as he tries to advance on Azog, an orc painfully knocks him down from behind and he’s stabbing his sword into a warg’s mouth while an arrow flies into its rider, and all Thorin can hear in his ears is his own heartbeat as he tries to look over at Bilbo who is getting more distant in his vision as he starts to walk backwards, Sting at the ready even though he looks on the verge of frightened tears, and Bolg is blocking the hobbit from full view which scares Thorin even more._

_Enough to where, when he’s slicing the head off another menacing behemoth, he finally finds his voice again,_

_“BILBO!”_

_The shout of the hobbit’s name gets his nephews’ attention too, and they pale even more than Thorin has when they see what is going on; Fili makes to run and try and assist, but an arrow gets him in the shoulder and he falls down in pain—he’ll get up a few minutes later, but only to be swarmed by the enemy and have to fend for his life. Kili readies an arrow himself, but is bashed in the head and he too gets ambushed, shouting as he fights off his assailants with deftness and speed._

_And Thorin gets a revelation when he sees Azog smiling at him over his shoulder._

_He knows what will happen once this ends._

_He knows it will shatter Thorin’s heart—it will give him the greatest lesson of all, and that it will break him._

_Even if he is to kill Thorin too, Bilbo’s death will still break him._

_And that’s what Azog has always wanted._

_And Thorin can only whisper “no…” as he tries to break away from the five enemies that have descended upon him, while trying to keep an eye on Bilbo._

_Bilbo, the man he almost threw off the mountain._

_Bilbo, the little burglar who just wanted to stop the bloodshed, and stole a gem to try and do so._

_Bilbo, the hobbit who tried to save Thorin because he didn’t want to feel useless, feel like a traitor; the hobbit who wanted to do one last good deed before Thorin banished him in a fit of stupidity that he would have regretted years later if he was to live past this day._

_But now he is only Bilbo, the creature whispering “come on, come on” under his breath as an orc advances on him; because though he didn’t plan to lose his ring in the dirt, he’ll stand his ground now, because he cares—because he’s a good soul, as Balin had once whispered to Thorin in the dead of night as the rest of the company slept; because he doesn’t want all of this to end like so, with a dead Line of Durin._

_Because something in Bilbo’s blood told him that was the result of the oncoming storm; maybe it was whisperings from Yavanna, maybe it was Those Above Her that told him, or maybe it was pure instinct. Regardless, he was here, having jumped into the fray, and it would end on his terms, and his terms alone: doing his best to be an ally, always._

_And it works, because Bolg takes the bait—and swings a mace right at Bilbo, and though he blocks it the first time with Sting, the second time is too quick, too sudden._

_And that blow hits him right in the thighs, and the mithril shirt is no protection there; and the blood is already pooling as Bilbo falls with a scream, and Thorin’s stomach drops, because he knows._

_He knows that blow has severed veins and arteries as Bilbo gasps in pain and makes to crawl, while Thorin tries to move as quickly as he can, while being surrounded and in pain himself, fighting off the jaws of wargs and the weapons of those who would wish him dead—the weapons who will kill his greatest ally right before his eyes._

_Because he sees that Bolg isn’t done, because Bilbo, sweet, brave Bilbo, tries to stand as his mace comes up again, and this time it does strike the mithril shirt right in the hobbit’s stomach, and this time the creature lets out a scream of pain that renders Thorin’s heart in two._

_But Bilbo, whimpering with bruises forming and some drops of blood soaking through his stomach, still grips Sting._

_He isn’t going down yet and Thorin would cry out for joy at the hobbit’s gusto if he wasn’t too busy screaming in the face of another._

_But the King Under the Mountain should have known it wouldn’t last—that hobbits are more frail, and they can be broken._

_Even Bilbo Baggins._

_Because he finally gets a opening, the enemies haven fallen down beside him as the seconds tick by and he finally charges-_

_Just as Azog swings his arms and Bilbo’s lithe body goes flying, his face and head bombarded with the demonic enemy’s mace-hand; and silence echoes around Thorin except for his breathing and truly, truly then, time slows, because Bilbo falls and no, this has to be it, this is it, it-_

_But as he makes for Bolg, the laughing, hideous orc that he is, Fili runs to his side and makes a pass at Azog’s son, screaming, “GO!” because he knows that Azog is the one, he will kill the hobbit, he will behead him, he-_

_But he doesn’t do that. He doesn’t do any of that._

_And Bilbo doesn’t lay down to die, but weakly stands, Sting barely in his fingers, and he’s dazed and is falling and fading fast—while Azog does nothing but stand there and smile, and Thorin should have known that something was wrong._

_Because just as he gets to the orc he’s longed to kill, Azog does nothing but chuckle as Thorin puts the blade to his throat—and he moves the fingers of his good hand in a motion, signaling to others-_

_Wait, to others?_

_That is all Thorin has time to think before an arrow flies from yonder—and pierces Bilbo’s neck._

_And Thorin’s hand stalls as he watches the hobbit stare openly towards Azog, blood flowing freely and oh, oh, can he see Thorin in the darkened tunnel towards the other world? Can he see anything as another arrow flies, with serrated edges, and slices his throat from the other side?_

_Regardless, it matters not—because this time, Bilbo falls in a slump, and it’s over._

_It’s over despite Thorin screaming the hobbit’s name just as Azog laughs and finally pays attention to him, slamming the dwarf king to the ground as Bilbo bleeds out, feet away, eyes wide and body helpless._

_And time speeds up again, as Thorin wrestles with his long-term foe; for months and years, he has dreamed of this moment, wanting to drag it out, make Azog suffer for his crimes against the Durin heirs and family._

_But now, he can’t but want to speed it up, finish the wretched creature quickly because Bilbo, Bilbo is out there dying, and Thorin can only think about how they truly got to this moment, how after saving each other, after supporting each other, after brandishing swords at one another (well, mostly him to Bilbo, but still), their friendship, their camaraderie, will end with hobbit blood on dwarf hands._

_And that makes Thorin’s lust for gold dry up like a desert. It will make him want to throw the Arkenstone against a wall later on, which he does, though it does not shatter._

_But the clanging noise it makes and the scream he will let out does make him feel better._

_In the present, though, jewels and gold are far from his mind, and Mahal, he secretly knows why even if he won’t say it aloud; and if the only thing he can think is how Bilbo—clever until his last breath—had his plan succeed._

_He had distracted the orcs so the dwarrows could strike them down, for Bolg lies dead under Fili’s reign of terror, and Thorin manages to slice off Azog’s head after tense minutes of tussling, and after being beaten and bruised himself, his arms weak and his head bleeding from his scalp._

_But once again, it matters not as he runs, falling—yes, falling, onto the ground beside the hobbit._

_“Bilbo…?” He whispers the other’s name, a hand on a sunken, damaged cheek and Thorin suddenly feels like he can’t breathe; because Bilbo’s lips are moving, gasping for breath as blood trickles down his neck and up through his lips, as he lies damaged and shriveled up, and how badly Thorin wishes he’d left the little lad back in his hole._

_“Bilbo, Bilbo, shh…” he continues, pulling the creature into his arms because yes, good old Master Baggins let out a little soft, squeal just now, and Thorin, teary, knows it’s hopeless, even if he doesn’t want it to be so, “Bilbo, easy, easy…I’m right here.”_

_It occurs to Thorin just then that probably, just probably, the hobbit didn’t want the great King Under the Mountain to be his last, living sight, and that thought stings with more vitriol and venom more than a dagger to the thigh would; but he cannot leave him, he cannot leave Bilbo to die, thousands of miles from where he wants to be, alone and feeling unloved._

_Because he’s not._

_Unloved, that is._

_“You…You will be okay…” Thorin’s always been shite at lying, Dwalin would tell you that, and even now, he’s horrible at it, even while he smiles through the pain, while he ignores the battle around his head and heart, “I shall find…I-I shall find the healers, and-“_

_“T-…Thorin…” His voice is raspy, but the Baggins boy is as stubborn as a dwarf; and Thorin only holds on tighter as his name is called, while trying to shush the other, save your strength, close your eyes, it will be okay-_

_“P-Promise…”_

_“…Promise what? Do…Do you mean your contract? A vow? Y-You have fulfilled your contract, more than anyone else, what do you mean, you confusing little creature?”_

_Thorin later calls himself an idiot because it was never about the contract, a promise in writing; but someone is dying in his arms right now and he’s babbling while sweating and nearly crying, his mouth without a filter, his brain without circuitry to try and save itself from humiliation._

_“…Take…home…”_

_Thorin gasps at the last words, because he immediately takes it as an angry declaration, that Thorin promised to take him home, to make sure he was warm and safe…but the dwarf never did such a thing, and Bilbo knows it, so what could-_

_Oh._

_‘Take home’…as in…_

_“B-Bilbo, shh, you…you are going to be…fine…” His voice cracks and he tries to smile; but it is hard to when Bilbo himself gives him a smile, and a tiny hand that had been reaching up to touch his own falls flat against a chest covered in a blue coat, mithril shirt, and too, too much blood, while his body seizes up once, twice, while eyes freeze and stare wide at nothing, and Thorin watches as the last light leaves Bilbo’s eyes with a little gasp._

_He doesn’t scream—not on the battlefield, not yet, but his ancient tongue comes to the forefront, and kiss to the hobbit’s forehead shakily occurs. Because yes, yes, Bilbo, he will take you home to be buried, he will create for you the finest coffin imaginable…_

_But for now—he mourns, and quickly._

_Because the rest of the battle is still going on, and he must keep fighting—Bilbo died in a suicidal, heroic tempt to make it happen._

_Thankfully, said battle flies by in a blink of an eye._

_Dwalin, Mahal bless him, appears moments later, sees the scene, and pulls the limp body from Thorin’s arms wordlessly._

_If it had been anyone else, Thorin may have slit their throat._

_Instead, he vanishes with the…the corpse…and a haze descends over the King, then, who begins fighting mercilessly, without a sound, without any rage, but instead a coldness in his veins._

_His nephews, Mahal help them, see his pain right upon his face, and know the truth; and though Kili’s face crumples, he stays strong, and Fili merely shakes his head as he becomes passionate and angry, conveying everything Thorin wishes he could at the moment._

_But he’s too numb to do so._

_Of course, he falls unconscious at one point, a blow to the head (was that meant for someone else?) and hours later, wakes up in a tent with a startled motion._

_And for a brief, beautiful moment, it all seems to have been a dream._

_But there are bandages on his head and bare chest, his body is filled with aches and pains and healers are milling about, murmuring and whispering things he hears, but does not listen to._

_And then Balin arrives._

_“B-Balin-“ His throat is dry, crusted over with suffering and nerves, much like the blood in his hair._

_“Hush, laddie, save your strength…” His dear old friend is a bit bruised himself, but no worse for the wear, “We won. ‘Tis a day of victory upon our people.”_

_Thorin’s eyes widen, but he steadies his breathing to ask about casualties; Fili’s lost a hand and KIli’s lost an eye, but they live, and he breathes easily for the moment, until-_

_Until it all comes back to him._

_“B-Bilbo…Bilbo, is he-“_

_Balin’s face falls, and he can only whisper, “I’m sorry.”_

_Thorin knows, of course. No one could have survived what Bilbo suffered, but…but he had hoped-_

_“He was gone when Dwalin brought him to the healers. Nothing could be done.”_

_“And…and he was the only one?” The only death, out of all of them?_

_“…Aye.”_

_Thorin says nothing, looks at nothing; it is only a minute later that he speaks up and requests to be taken to a private tent, he needs to heal in peace._

_And Balin arranges it to make it so, and hours later, surrounded by sheets for walls and grass for a floor, confined to a bed to heal, does Thorin scream his lungs out; Dwalin makes a move towards the tent, but his brother stops him just in time, shaking his head, because he too knows—he knows when his dear King is in pain that can only be solved through emotion like so._

_It takes days for him to physically heal, for the corpses to be taken care of and off the battle-field, and for Thorin to be able to stand and stomach food, but it happens._

_It has to happen._

_Life—his life—has to go on._

_But that does not mean he cannot fix what has occurred--on some level._

_For it is then that he gathers the Company for one last request._

_They are all somber, broken, and pitiful things; Bofur has nothing to smile about with an arm wound and dead allies (and friend, oh, he and Bilbo were close…); Bombur can’t eat right now, Kili isn’t talking, Fili is wrought with guilt, too, and Ori is crying onto Dwalin’s shoulder._

_And he asks for assistance in preserving Bilbo’s corpse in the catacombs until he can build a coffin for him._

_It’s an odd request, and the group asks what he is planning, what is going on, why not bury him in the halls of their ancestors? He is a hero, worthy of it!_

_“…Because I owe him this much.” Thorin whispers to the table between them, and he tries to ignore Ori’s little sob and Balin’s despondent sigh._

_So Bilbo’s body is cleaned by dwarven healers in spare moments of healing the wounded, and Gandalf makes an appearance; though, he perhaps should have given warning, because the first time Thorin sees him since the battle began, he charges the wizard, because where was HE when Bilbo suffered? Where was he when Bilbo DIED?!_

_But Dwalin holds him back, and Gandalf only sighs and shakes his head, and pets Bilbo’s hair like a reverent father, and helps to clean his wounds, and soon enough, sparks of magic fill the air as he waves his hands over the frail hobbit limbs and pasty skin, and closes the hobbit’s eyes for the last time._

_“He will not decompose, now.”_

_“…For how long?”_

_Gandalf only raises an eyebrow at Thorin and that is answer enough._

_It takes another two and a half months before there is time to build a coffin; his people must come first and Bilbo would lecture him if he didn’t make Erebor a primary concern. Sometimes Thorin can picture the little man shouting and lecturing him for various things, and yes, stopping his duties to build a coffin would be something he’d be angry at him for._

_But it still makes him smile despondently._

_Bilbo’s memory makes him do a lot of things—break into fits of tears in private and public, throw dishes, laugh because oh, that joke, that sass, reminds him of the hobbit, and he is mourning so, so much…_

_And it makes him design the most beautiful coffin he could ever imagine._

_Black, like the obsidian underground, like the night sky._

_A lid of glass, to view the hero inside._

_He is not good with stone-work, but his kin are, and Gloin, Gimli, and Dain and Bofur aid him, while Bifur helps carve Khuzdûl into the stone; and Balin arranges the body, hands folded over the hobbit’s chest, while Ori, sweet Ori, brings a crown of flowers from the gardens of Lake Town to fit against honey-colored tresses._

_It’s not the crown he deserves. But it is the only one Thorin can give him now._

_And Bilbo looks majestic in a new dark blue coat and silver undershirt._

_He’s wearing Thorin’s colors._

_And no one sees Gandalf place the golden ring in Bilbo’s pocket, feeling now that the magic will die with Bilbo—and no one will search it out again._

_Dori places a few more flowers inside the coffin, and one could believe that Bilbo was just sleeping amongst the Shire’s gardens; there’s even a smile on his face, and Thorin can almost imagine that he will wake up and sputter about the situation and throw the flowers in the air and laugh again._

_No one speaks for some time, until Dwalin—of all dwarves—comes forward, on bended knee, says a prayer in Khuzdûl; he gives frail, broken fingers one last squeeze, a sigh of honor, of pride for the fallen, and he makes to leave._

_And doesn’t look back._

_And they each take turns facing their old, gone-but-not forgotten friend. It is Fili who places Sting between Bilbo’s hands while Kili rests his head on his sibling’s shoulders, whimpering softly, cursing the Valar and everything unfair about life. Bofur takes his hat off in reverence, and makes sure the flowers are seated perfectly; Ori breaks down when he sees Bilbo is truly smiling despite the lack of life while Gloin and Oin give heroic bows._

_They all say a final goodbye—until only Thorin remains._

_Balin squeezes his shoulder, motioning for the others to leave their King in peace._

_Because even he too needs to say goodbye._

_But Thorin’s mouth dries up at the sight of the little Halfling that he has only known for a handful of months; and somewhere, in the back of his mind, the dwarf can picture Bilbo’s dark eyes opening up once more, brown orbs sprinkled with a bit of green twinkling with mirth, laughing at Thorin’s despondency because he would. He would question all the mourning, why all of this for someone so simple, a fifty-some year old hobbit that did very little worthwhile in his life?_

_“You were never something simple.” Is all Thorin can whisper now in the darkened halls of Erebor, staring at the corpse that doesn’t belong there._

_And he can only feel like he’s just exchanged places with someone who deserved…so much better._

_“…I’m sorry.” Thorin’s voice cracks because it hits him, then, that Bilbo never heard his apology before he left this world, and he can only fathom the question of when will he stop messing up? When will he stop letting people he cares about down?_

_“This wasn’t the fate I wanted for you.” He doesn’t say that he would have buried Bilbo in gold and jewels, because he’s only a ‘stupid, stubborn dwarf’ that doesn’t know how to show simplistic affection to people from the Shire. He doesn’t say that he would have asked Bilbo to stay if he had known this would have been the end result of it all._

_He doesn’t even try to think upon the idea that he would have gone through with his banishment of Bilbo Baggins at the end of the Battle. Because maybe, maybe the sick, twisted part of him would have…_

_But would have Bilbo even listened?_

_“Why didn’t you listen to me and stay behind the walls of Erebor?” He isn’t blaming the other, but the anger, the self-directed anger, needs an outlet, needs a place to go; but Thorin knows he must be better than that, so his hands clench, nails digging into palms, and he lets out a shaky breath._

_Because he can’t do anything else, now. Except truly say goodbye in an honorable way._

_So that is why he pulls out a silver, Khuzdûl-engraved bead, with two green stones nestled into the metal; so that is why he steps closer to Bilbo, gently taking a few short strands and, though not long enough for a proper, elongated braid, it becomes a braid nonetheless, settling against Bilbo’s temple._

_“You will always be one of us…my dear friend.”_

_If only he had been present in mind and body before, and he could have given Bilbo more than what could be said now, could be done now._

_For all he can give Bilbo now is another soft kiss to his forehead against peachy skin, a waning smile, and a closed glass lid on his final resting place._

_Well—half of his final resting place._

_Because the coffin is part one, but it will not stay in Erebor._

_“Laddie, you need not do this,” Balin tells him as he brings up his idea once more, “Bilbo…Bilbo fought for Erebor. Surely he would not be troubled by the idea of being buried here?”_

_“He would not consider our kingdom his home, Balin. Not after…”_

_Well._

_Some things are better left unsaid._

_The images of a dangling hobbit nearly over the wall speak more than words ever would._

_And the images of a bleeding and dying hobbit are the punctuation marks of said sentence._

_“And he wished to buried in the Shire. The words came directly from his mouth.”_

_The other dwarf gives Thorin a quirked eyebrow, as if he does not believe him, but says no more._

_And they begin the preparations to send Bilbo back home, back where he belongs._

_Thorin, of course, cannot go, no matter how much he wishes he could; Erebor needs him, needs him present and available and ruling. So he tries to ignore the twinge of jealousy when Kili volunteers to go in his stead, along with a troop of some of the most honorable men the dwarrows can spare, and Bilbo is lifted onto a cart, a tarp upon it hiding him away from the world._

_And he watches the caravan leave the mountain from the windows of his bedroom, a crown upon his head, and a wizard a few feet behind him._

_“You have done well by him, Thorin Oakenshield.” Gandalf muses softly, and Thorin finds his mouth twitching._

_“It is the least I could have done.”_

_“Truly? Even though you said you would not be responsible for his fate?”_

_The dwarf winces at the words from long ago, and makes to speak again, until Gandalf interrupts him, with,_

_“And yet…it seems he was responsible for yours. Quite a curious turn of events indeed.”_

_“Have you anything else to say other than nonsensical thoughts?” Thorin finds himself whipping around to stare at the wizard, then, “I know the result of what has occurred. I was there, and saw it first-hand.”_

_A heartbeat of a pause, then,_

_“I already know I was truly responsible for Bilbo Baggins’ fate…And I shall carry that burden with me until the end of my days. And it is why I worked to give him what he earned, what he deserved. What he would have wanted.”_

_Gandalf said nothing, instead choosing to give Thorin an inquisitive gaze while leaning on his staff; the silence stretched out and Thorin could only look away and back out his window, and he found himself whispering, more to himself,_

_“He saved my life…too, too many times. Too many times than any being should have. And he saved my nephews, and I never asked that of him. And-“_

_“And you can never pay him back?”_

_“Do you define causing his death as payback?”_

_Gandalf smiled then, and stepped closer to Thorin, a hand resting on his shoulder that caused the dwarf to tense._

_“Bilbo Baggins did nothing that was not of his own volition. He could not let the King he fought for—and against, in many ways—die foolhardily. Nor his kin.”_

_“I nearly killed him. Do you not remember that?” Thorin cannot help the snarl that escapes from his lips, and he bites down the bile-like urge to punch a wall._

_“I do. If I remember correctly, it was I who called to you to release him.”_

_Another pause, “And it seems he has released you from your madness, yes?”_

_“Even more of a reason for me to be disgusted at the situation.” Thorin huffs, and his voice rises as the words flow, “He fights for me, dies for me, smiles as he dies because he knows what he has done—he **forgives** me, Gandalf, even when I do not deserve it.”_

_“Ah. But, dear Thorin, that is where you are mistaken. The forgiveness of hobbits is…something quite legendary, indeed.”_

_That is when Gandalf bids adieu and makes to vanish once again into the world, leaving Thorin at the window, the caravan now a speck in the distance._

_And he knows Gandalf is right about many things—for as the months go on and on, the treasure is the farthest thing on his mind. The gold is something he looks in on once in a blue moon, mostly to see how it can be divided up and used for his people. Thorin takes some gold for himself, a few beads and strands for his hair, a ring here or there…but it is nothing in the end._

_But no one questions why he seems to care little for his gold._

_But Thorin himself doesn’t say that looking upon gold these days makes him ill in a lecherous, deviant way._

_And no one asks about the Arkenstone. No one, if they hear him, mentions the scream, the howl, Thorin let out when it was returned to him, how all he can see when he looks at it is Bilbo, and the fact that Bilbo died for a **rock.**_

_A rock that, in the beginning, Thorin truly never wanted anyone to die for._

_Or, at least, that is how it feels._

_No one pays attention to how said rock clangs out against the wall, and how Thorin wants it to break._

_Break like everything else._

_So he places it upon the throne and vows to never look at it again._

_And no one speaks of the procession into the Shire except Kili, when he returns months later, saying most of the hobbits, save for Bilbo’s family, just shook their heads and commented on how foolish it was for him to go off in the first place. How there was a rauchy and loud lass named Lobelia who ranted and raved and nearly drove Kili mad with her slander._

_“You mean to tell me none of them mourned?” Thorin didn’t need another reason to be angry, but the hobbits in Hobbiton are giving him one._

_“There were some, Uncle. Close friends of Bilbo’s, actually. A lovely family of hobbits called the Gamgees. Hamfast and his wife, and their children.” Kili stops for a moment before continuing, and Thorin knows he’s holding something else—something worse—back._

_“What? What is it?”_

_“…Bilbo’s closest family did stop by. Apparently word had spread to the neighborhoods that a hobbit had died and was being returned by dwarves. I’m assuming it was someone in Bree, when we stopped there. And…Well. Drogo Baggins--Bilbo’s cousin--and his family...they were there, waiting for us at his hole. Possibly as caretakers while Bilbo was gone, possibly because…well. Rumors, Uncle. Rumors.”_

_Thorin can hear the unexpected words: they hoped it wasn’t him, that maybe, just maybe it had been someone else, that some other poor soul had been killed._

_“His little nephew…Frodo. You would have liked him, Uncle. Brave boy.”_

_Kili doesn’t mention how Frodo had begun screaming at his uncle’s dead body and it had been the dwarf himself that had held the child back, trying to soothe him while his father stood nearby, fighting tears back._

_Kili doesn’t mention how most of the hobbits didn’t care; how they thought Bilbo a crazy fool that had sealed his own fate—but Thorin can tell that anyway, and finds himself punching a wall later on._

_And that night, that night upon Kili’s return, hearing that Bilbo had been finally laid to rest…is when the first tug on his soul is felt._

_It’s a quick stab of pain, internal and ethereal and he can only stare into his mirror and wonder what it means, what this ache deep down truly means…_

_And as the weeks go on, that pain continues ever on and on, at random points during the day, at night when he cannot sleep._

_And Thorin knows it means something—but what, he cannot say._

_**\--- *o*---** _

And tonight, as he stands once more after taking a few deep breath, there is that tug, that stab, that echoes through his marrow and he wonders: is this heartbreak? Is this guilt? No, he knows guilt—guilt has plagued him for months, and this is…this is deeper than guilt, deeper than even the darkest seas.

Heartbreak? Truly, possibly, yes, it could be. But even if he wishes for Bilbo to return to him, it is not about love. It’s not about _feelings_ , not at all. It’s not about what he truly desires, his empty bed, the lack of communication from a potential friend (partner, lover, partner, _treasure…_ ), the emptiness in his nephews’ eyes or his nightmares where Bilbo falls into darkness and Thorin is hopeless and will never, ever save him.

It’s about what’s right—and Bilbo being dead _isn’t right_.

And yes, this feeling, it’s more than that. Than all of that, really. It’s as if something…someone…is tugging on his inner essence, pulling him along on his miserable path without telling him where he is actually going or giving him a legitimate map.

It is almost downright painful tonight, though; a pain he can feel and not feel at the same time, something that takes his breath away while causing perspiration on his palms as he stares into the mirror once more, not liking what he sees, not enjoying his haggardness and his tired eyes.

And he says the only word his soul can say, what _he_ can say, at times like this.

“Bilbo…”

And then the noise starts.

It’s at first gentle ringing in his ears, and Thorin winces, because who truly likes ringing ears? But it will pass, surely, he tells himself, tries to convince himself—and he’s been doing that a lot, recently, but maybe this time it will work?

But it doesn’t.

The noise in his head gets louder, octave by octave, higher in pitch and it verges on the border of painful. It is like white noise in his head, a pitched whistle from a broken window with wind whistling in.

What Thorin doesn’t know is that many others in Erebor are hearing the noise as well—Balin has awoken with a headache, Dis too, and Fili, unable to sleep while Kili slumbers next to him in bed (something their Uncle also doesn’t know about), finds himself growling while reading, a twitchy pain in his head, heart and hands.

It turns out that every single member of the Company awakens that night with a start, some hearing whistling in their head, some hearing chirping, light screeching; all that cause pain in some fashion, but only minor.

It is Thorin who hears the noise the loudest and as it rises in pitch, his legs give out, hitting the hard floor with a crash; his hands come out just in time to make sure he doesn’t face plant into the stone while his whole body—all of his veins—feel as if they are on fire, burning up in cinders and he can only pant out air, feeling paralyzed in a horrendous fashion.

And then…the Mountain goes silent.

It’s a precious few seconds, and Thorin finds his head to be quiet and he takes in a breath or two…

Until a piercing scream renders him useless.

It is a wail, a powerful wail, and Thorin can only clasp his ears as he’s bowled over onto his side, gasping in agony; it is a shriek too high, too powerful, for him to take.

If the Holy Beings in the World could talk to him, this is how they would speak; if Man’s angels spoke, this is how they would sound: powerful, and screaming horrendously, high-pitched, in one long note of agony.

And then the glass shatters.

His mirror explodes in a fury and Thorin’s eyes widen as the glass hits the floor, while at the same time his window shatters outward towards the night air, a few specks of leftover material falling near his loose hair.

What Thorin won’t realize until later is that every single piece of glass— _every single one_ —in Erebor shatters that night. No windows remain, glasses, goblets, and jewels of any sort that were made of the finite and fine material break. Even Balin’s spectacles crack on his nightstand as he too clasps his head in agony.

For they all can hear the scream.

But it is Thorin who hears the scream the loudest, as if he is somehow connected to the Being that is letting loose Her fury. And he could swear that his ears were bleeding—which, yes, they are, but only lightly, a few drops of ruby here or there—and that he may just go deaf and mad.

And mad he may just go—because then, oh, then, the room starts to _glow._

He sees the light reflected in the little shards of glass all around him; it is a pale, light blue, like the topaz of his gems, like the seas, like his eyes, and it gets brighter as the seconds tick on, as the screaming still continues, as if the Being has infinite voice.

Cautiously, Thorin glances over his shoulder, and there is lightning in his room; sparks of blue are dancing around him, exploding from nothingness. He wants to scream, call for Balin, call for anyone, but the shock of it all has dried up any words Thorin had on his mind.

Because the light gets brighter, stronger, and it truly _is_ lightning in his room, and he wonders if it will rain, too.

But it doesn’t.

The ‘storm’ gives him something else.

Because thousands of miles away, in a cave tucked away near the Shire, a corpse’s eyes fly open and a gasp echoes from a dead mouth, while blue light passes pale lips and shoots across the land.

And only one wizened wizard sees it.

And Thorin is thrown by nothingness—literally, nothing visible--towards the glow; and there it is again, that tug on his soul, and though they are faint, sparks of azure shoot up from his fingertips just as the light from the Shire reaches his window and the entire room is illuminated, turning the walls a white-wash hue, blowing out the candles, the fireplace, and Thorin would close his eyes if he could look away and stop staring.

Then...the hand appears.

And there’s an arm following it, and the scream reaches a high pitch—the highest yet—and then stalls for one second like an opera singer hitting her final note…

Which, She does.

One final note echoes out, the ball of light explodes, lightning flying everywhere and on this night, on the five month anniversary of the Battle of Five Armies, Erebor is alit with a blue glow everywhere throughout its halls, and its inhabitants hear the scream of Yavanna for the first—and last—time.

But it is also the day of something few, if any, dwarrows have ever seen…

A resurrection.

For once Thorin takes a breath, and opens his eyes, he nearly faints.

Because before him, with a body made of topaz light and little sparks, like embers from a fire or little lightning bolts, with clarity and no solidarity to him, on his knees…

Is Bilbo Baggins.

It has to be—those sweet curls, those hairy feet….That coat is the same as the one Thorin saw him buried him, those pants are the same, too…That is his stature, his pudgy stomach, his-

“Bilbo…?”

Thorin can only whisper the other’s name, and it gets the hobbit’s attention, because he locks eyes with the dwarf; eyes that too are blue, are nearly see-through, with a mouth that is formed into an “o” of shock…

That eventually breaks into a nervous, albeit confused, smile.

And soft words, in the same old voice that he hasn’t heard in months, come forth and Thorin’s heart is beating a mile a minute as Bilbo—sassy, clever Bilbo—tells him the blunt, hard facts.

“Thorin…Well. It seems it is me that’s barging into your home this time.”

_**\---*O* ---** _

_All alone on the edge of sleep_

_My old familiar friend_

_Comes and lies down next to me_

_And I can see it coming from the edge of the room_

_Smiling in the streetlight even with my eyes shut tight_

_I still see it coming now..._

_\- “Breaking Down”, Florence + The Machine_


End file.
